by Tom Blair
I was from Connaught, Michael Kelley grew up in Munster. But it didn’t matter. We was both Work House lads. His sister was in a convent where nuns had taken in starving Irish girls who promised to do God’s work. For a bowl of cold gruel my family would have sworn to do the devil’s work. Mostly Michael talked about his older brother Brian and his life in America. I listened with big ears. Wonderful stories of America he told. Someday his brother would send money to bring him and his sister Catherine to America. I didn’t believe, but I smiled and told him how lucky he was.
Michael was different than the other fellows in the Work House. He had a bounce to his words and his steps. I hadn’t seen a grin or heard a laugh in more time than I could remember. Telling his brother’s stories of America made him smile. After a while these stories made me smile. Stories that told that in America every man was his own master with farmland for the asking, more fertile land than any Irish fields of rocks. I knew the stories weren’t true. But I knew grandfather’s stories of St. Patrick driving snakes from our land and of Jesus’s Trinity being a shamrock weren’t true. But grandfather’s stories were happy stories. Happy stories were more than stories when there weren’t any happy times.
In the men’s ward Sundays were ours, no need to go to school. And we were allowed to leave the Work House every other Sunday. So it happened that one rainy Sunday Michael asked that I go with him to visit Catherine. Her convent was a good ten miles south of the Work House, so we started our trek when it was more dark than light.
Before the sun shone full Michael and I picked four apples when we crossed through an orchard on our journey. ’Course that’s not the truth. The orchard was behind a big stone wall. Michael climbed up on my shoulders and quick like over the wall to pick the apples, a present for his sister. Walked fast we did, and sooner than I thought we were at the stone gray convent. Sat ourselves down on a tree stump and waited.
Walking so slowly with her head down, Catherine came out from the convent after their second Mass. She had a friend with her. A pretty friend. Catherine wasn’t so pretty, but her friend was special pretty, with a sweet smile. Her name was Rose. Only family could visit the girls at the convent, so I was Rose’s brother. Michael and I were both visiting our sisters. We just sat and talked to Catherine and Rose, eating the apples real slow. After some good words and good apples they smiled, stood, and walked back the path they came, they were off to dinner Mass.
Back at the Work House I thought about what Rose said. She told me that she wanted to be a good Catholic, but she didn’t want to be a nun. She said their life was mean like harsh. I thought she meant the nuns didn’t have an easy life. That’s not what she meant. Told me that harsh meant that the nuns only saw the bad in things. They only saw the sins of the people. Nuns were always trying to scrub away sins. They never saw the happiness in life. Rose wanted to see people’s happiness.
No one told us the blight was over but we knew when it was. After almost two years at the Work House we began to have stew and not porridge for supper. At first maybe more a soup than stew. No meat to be seen in the stew but a meat taste was there. Then one evening, right in the middle of my bowl, a hunk of meat. Like a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow, a gristled hunk of meat in front of me. I moved it around in the bowl. I cradled it in my wooden spoon, smelled it, put it back in the bowl. I looked at it some more, then put it in my mouth and slowly, very slowly, I chewed.
I would see Rose twice a month, I would see her on my Sunday off. Some Sundays Michael didn’t visit his sister. I went to see Rose anyway. My walk to the convent was short ’cause I was anxious. The walk back was short ’cause I was happy. It was on a bone-cold rainy Sunday, we were standing under an oak tree that was the roof to half the convent’s cemetery. With quiet words Rose told me she wasn’t going to take her vows in a year when she was supposed to. Said she wanted to smile more than the nuns smiled, wanted to smile at her babies. Got me thinking maybe she liked me not as a friend but maybe as a husband. That night at the Work House I asked Michael to have his sister Catherine find out if Rose cared for me.
And, sure enough, after one of our Sunday visits, Michael told me that his sister said that Rose cared for me more than any boy she knew. Then Michael told me maybe there was a man Rose liked even better. Then he smiled a Michael smile.
By the third year at the Work House potatoes were again plenty. If a lad could show they could find work they were allowed to leave. Michael and I didn’t have anywhere to go. Other than his sister in the convent and his brother in America we didn’t have family. Then would you believe that one bright spring day Michael’s uncle brought the money, the money that Brian sent for Michael and his sister to come to America.
The uncle was a seaman, biggest shoulders and more muscles than I could have imagined. Laced inside a brown belt he wore under his shirt was the money for Michael. Bug-eyed, I stared at a pile of paper money he pulled from the belt. Never imagined there could be so much money. I thought I’d see a singing angel on the windowsill before I’d have seen such a stack of for-real money. There it was, enough for two passages to America, forty pounds plus some kind of money I had never heard of. Dollars, they were, American money. Michael’s uncle told him to always wear the money belt. Told it didn’t matter if he bathed or laid with a woman, he should never take it off. Michael didn’t ever do either so it didn’t mean much.
That night Michael stole from the Work House to the convent. He wanted to tell Catherine the news. By morning he was back. A strange look he had. A look of sadness and happiness. The sadness was what his sister told him. Catherine didn’t want to go to America. She wanted to be a servant of God at the convent. The happiness was from what he told me. Wearing his big Michael smile asked if I wanted to go with him to America. Of course America was to me as heaven in the sky. Something nice to think of but too far away to ever see. I kept thinking it must be a dream that I could go to America. Sometimes I dreamt that I was with my parents and brother and sister, eating and laughing. But I always woke from the dream. They were buried dead, that was real. Maybe America was a special dream that you didn’t wake from. Told him that for sure I would go with him.
A date certain was set, we were to sail from Liverpool in the month of April. A week before we started our walk to Dublin I journeyed to the convent to see Rose. Catherine had told her that Michael and I were going to America. She wished me well. She told me how happy she was for me and that she was for certain that I would have a good life.
It surprised me when I asked. We were at the far end of the cemetery behind the convent, standing near a moss-covered statue of Mary Mother of God. While looking to one side and then the other, I asked if she would join me in America. I asked that when I had work and saved enough money, if I sent her money for the passage, would she come to America. She took my hands in hers. Rose had never done this. I started to shake. She leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek. Never had I been kissed before. Not even mother had kissed me. And with her head still near mine sweet Rose answered a soft yes.
I drifted above the path on my journey back to the Work House. Never again would I be so happy. But that night, in the darkness, I thought of my family. It could not be right that I was so happy and they were long dead. I prayed for them. Then I thought of the kiss.
It was a seven-day trek from the Work House to Dublin. From there we sailed to Liverpool. Belowdecks cattle, with the Irish on deck in freezing rain. Two weeks in Liverpool waiting for the winds and tides. Our ship was the Hannah. I had heard it was a coughing ship. Michael and I thought that meant that most of the passengers would be afflicted with a cough. The crew told us we were wrong. It wasn’t a coughing ship, it was a coffin ship. The ship owners insured them for more than their value hoping they would sink. They made more money if the ship sank on a crossing than they did from fares. Sure enough, Hannah’s sails were tattered and patched, looking like gigantic quilts. Deckboards were rotten and the ropes rubbed thin. No better were the crew. Tatte
red, patched, and drunk. Not always drunk, but always the smell of ale. They knew for certain they were on a coffin ship.
Over a hundred of us, all belowdecks, not more than five feet between decks, everyone touching close together. At first not enough cots or hammocks for everyone, but the crew said to wait. They were right. Two hatches above the only light. When the weather was rough, and most often it was, they were closed. Meager light and air through the cracked and crumbling deckboards. At first there were babies crying. But they were the first to die, so their screaming went with them to the sea. A few days of moaning by their mothers, then quiet. The really old ones died as we came close to America. I spoke to a few, sorry they had left their Irish homeland. Most were on the journey because they were with their grown children and they had no choice. Death gave them a choice.
Even after twenty or more dead, we were still packed close. No one washed. Most everyone was dark with dirt and filth. Waking up there would maybe be an arm or leg across your body with another’s foul breath in your face. Then the amusement. Michael had a hand-carved wooden comb that was a gift from his sister for his journey. We took turns and kept score. Whoever had the highest count won a drink, an ale, from the other when we got to Boston. Of course neither of us had the money to buy a drink. And we didn’t know for sure whether we’d get to Boston. And I had never had an ale. So not winning one didn’t mean anything to me. But we talked about the bet while we combed each other’s hair and picked out lice. I am not sure who won. I picked out more than two hundred and Michael didn’t even get one hundred. So I won. But I was scratching more than him, so maybe he really won. And I know he really won because Michael never bought me the ale.
Depending on the winds the Captain bragged the journey would be a quick four to six weeks. It was eight weeks before we saw America. ’Course the Hannah was stocked only with enough stale and rotting food for six weeks. The hunger the last two weeks didn’t matter, it was an old acquaintance to all of us.
I thought it would look different. I knew it would look different. It had to look different because it was America. But it didn’t. Boston wharfs just as Liverpool. Most people in worn clothes. Just a few rode in grand carriages, their drivers yelling harsh words to those blocking their journey. And that first day in America the sky was gray. In my mind America always had blue skies with a bright sun and great white clouds.
Michael and I stood on the edge of the wharf until the sun set. For sure Michael thought Brian would know when the ship had arrived to greet us. I knew this couldn’t be, but I knew his brother wouldn’t send us money to come to America and I was wrong, so I stood with him. Then a most friendly Irishman smiled a hello. I remember his name. It was Patrick Callahan. The same first name as mine. Said that he saw us standing there looking lost and did we want him to find a place to spend the night, a place where the Irish were welcomed. Michael told him no, that we wanted to find Brian, not a place to sleep. Callahan said not to worry ’cause everyone knew that the inn he was taking us to was where Irishmen went when they first set foot in America.
For most of a mile to the south we walked following Mister Callahan. The last part of the journey only lit by some lantern light from the homes along a cobblestone path. Finally stopped at a red-brick building. Inside a smiling man leaning against a counter. A man wider than he was tall. To the left a tavern with laughter and shouting. Mister Callahan introduced us to the smiling fella. Told him to treat us special good because we were his friends. This big fella told us that for five dollars we could have a room for a month. Michael said we only needed a place to sleep for a few days because his brother would soon be taking us to a fine new home. He smiled and told us that he would give us a dollar back for each week we didn’t use of the month.
Michael went outside and then came back and handed the man five dollars. Patrick Callahan with a smile wished us much happiness in America and turned to the tavern. I thought how wonderful that everyone smiled.
While telling us how lucky we were to be in his inn, the big grinning fellow showed us to our room, but it wasn’t our room. Eight mats were on the floor, five with snoring men. Told that we could take any of the ones left and that the privy was at the end of the path behind the building.
On our second day in America Michael spent a quarter of a dollar to buy a hard loaf of black bread and some dried fish from a one-armed man that somehow could push a cart while tipping his hat to the ladies. We thought it would be enough for most of a week, but when we woke the next day it wasn’t under Michael’s mat where he put it for safekeeping. None of the men said they knew anything. Just as we were getting ready to gouge and bite somebody a stranger walked in. He was a stranger until he hugged Michael. It was his brother Brian. They both cried for a little while, then Brian started to yell. Told Michael and me how dumb we were to be staying in the place we were. For sure he was right. When we went to leave the owner wouldn’t give Michael his dollars back from the five. But we didn’t fuss much.
Brian had found us both good jobs. Later I learned that good jobs for dumb Irish lads weren’t good jobs for other fellows. Michael’s was in a town south of Boston, mine in Boston proper on Sumner Street, just past Hancock. On the first floor was a dry goods store. Its owner, Mister James Mulcahy, lived on the second floor with his wife and his mother and two daughters. The grandmother was bent-over old and the children just waifs. Just like in the Work House I worked six days. I minded the store, carried boxes, delivered goods to ladies and old men. For this I got five cents a day plus supper and a stained gray blanket and a cot in the root cellar. Once I killed the rats and got myself a lantern it was better than anywhere I had slept in my life.
Almost got let go right away. I couldn’t make change ’cause I couldn’t count. Missus Mulcahy took pity on me and taught me my numbers. She wrote out on a piece of paper from one cent to fifty cents. Next to each cost she wrote what would be the change depending on the money handed me. Mister Mulcahy didn’t talk much. Mostly he gave orders and pushed his forehead down to show he was unhappy about something. His wife smiled when she talked. Men customers, I think for sure, bought from the store so they could talk to a pretty lady that smiled. And she was pretty. But not as pretty as my Rose.
It was at the end of my first Saturday with the Mulcahys that I got paid. Paid a quarter dollar and a half dime. First money I ever had for myself. That night I sat on my cot and stared at the coins in the glow of the lantern. I rubbed them together. I held them together. I held them apart. I wiped them clean with my shirtsleeve. The next day I walked through Boston with one hand in my pants pocket holding the quarter dollar and half dime. I walked in big steps with a smile.
My first summer in America I saved two dollars and twenty-five cents. I didn’t spend one penny. I didn’t know at first but I didn’t spend any money ’cause Missus Mulcahy spent hers. She gave me socks when she saw I didn’t have any. When I asked how I could send a letter to Rose she got me the paper and took my letter to the post office. I never bought stamps. I didn’t know what a stamp was then. She helped me with other things. I thought I could read. One day she gave me a day-old newspaper and saw that I couldn’t make sense of most of it. Most words were long and strange. So, bless her heart, she became my teacher. When she brought down my supper plate she would bring an old Boston Post with one article marked. The next day when her husband was on an errand she would ask me which words I didn’t understand. At first most, then a few. I learned a lot about America ’cause of Missus Mulcahy’s reading lessons.
Most every night before sleep I would lay awake in the dark of Mulcahy’s cellar and think of Rose. I would think about us being together. I would think of the kiss. But then I would see in my mind’s eye a starving Meaghan and Paul. I asked God for his forgiveness for thinking of Rose and not praying for my family.
But I kept thinking of Rose. So I wrote to her. My first letter Missus Mulcahy wrote what I said. She told me to say some things I didn’t want to say. Since she was a lady a
nd so was Rose I told her all right. But I didn’t send Rose the paper Missus Mulcahy wrote. I copied the letter and Missus Mulcahy sent my letter.
Bad I felt that I didn’t know how to write a letter. At the Work House I learned to write. But I could only write words. I never wrote sentences. Missus Mulcahy taught me. We started with real short sentences. Learning made me feel worm dumb. At first I did most everything wrong. But I kept trying. You know why? ’Cause I wanted to write Rose in my words and not copy what Missus Mulcahy wrote.
On my day off Sundays I walked the streets of Boston. When I saw a father and mother with children I would imagine Rose and me with children. If the weather wasn’t real cold and windy I would go to the wharfs and sit on a crate and watch the ships unload cargo. Some days a ship would arrive with passengers. I’d watch them come down the gangplank. Most walked slowly and looked scared. But a few saw someone they knew and with a big smile and happy words ran to them. I imagined Rose coming down the gangplank and running to me. I imagined it a lot even when I wasn’t at the wharf.
Just about every month Michael visited me. He had a job at a factory that made cloth. Told me a lot of young girls worked at the factory. For that he was happy. But he didn’t make much in wages. He was saving for a farm, needed seventy-five dollars for a hundred acres. Figured he wasn’t saving as fast as the cost of land was going up. The cost of passage to America wasn’t going higher, but it didn’t matter. It would be five years of saving each and every cent of my wage before I could send Rose the fare.
I didn’t have any way to remember Rose but my mind’s painting of her. I would look at young girls trying to find someone that looked like Rose. I thought if I could see someone like Rose it would make me happy. One rainy Saturday a young lady came into Mulcahy’s shop. I had never seen this woman before. I had seen her face before. She had the same red hair and beautiful smiling face as Rose. When she left I was sad, not happy.